“I think you should.”
“No, no, you should!”
“I’ll say it then,” Maria squawks. “It all started in the men’s bathroom at Olive Gard—”
“That’s okay,” Sofia chimes in. “Luciano will start.”
“We met at a holiday party my parents threw in NYC. They invited all their friends and colleagues, including your aunt Rosita. She does all our accounting.”
“And he ignored me the entire night.” Sofia snorts. “I kept trying to get his attention, and he kept looking the other way. Acted like a total prick.”
“How chivalrous,” Valentina murmurs with a faint smile, keeping her tone light. “You spent the rest of the night complaining to me about it, desperate to go home. Remember? I recall you feeling really rejected.”
“Yeah, but right before we left, he finally approached me.” Sofia’s eyes light up as she feeds Luciano a slice of her poached pear.
Luciano smiles, putting an arm around her. “I was just so nervous to talk to such a beautiful woman.”
Valentina’s lips curl into a small smile.
“Well,” Sofia says softly, “it all worked out in the end.”
“I still think my version was better,” Maria mutters, causing a few guests nearby to snicker.
“And your parents, sorry I haven’t been able to meet them yet. Hi! I’m Isabella.” I lean over to see them past a few of the other guests. They lean in and wave back.
“Hi, I’m John, and this is my wife, Sarah,” Luciano’s father replies in a surprisingly deep voice. “Actually, I wanted to thank you all for inviting us to the wedding. We know it was pretty exclusive. We weren’t sure we would make it on the list.”
“Dad…” Luciano rolls his eyes.
A sense of longing circulates in my gut. I miss my dad’s dumb jokes.
“We really are so grateful,” his mother says. Her voice is smooth, like honey. “It’s so nice to meet people from a different culture. We tried our best with Lucie here, but we can only do so much.”
Luciano holds her hand and squeezes it. She smiles back at him.
“He’s adopted,” Maria whispers in my ear.
“No shit, pendeja,” I whisper back.
“I think that’s why he’s most excited about you, Isa,” Sarah says.
“Me?”
I watch the servers come by to take our empty dessert plates away. That means the rice pudding is coming up.
“Yes, absolutely. We invest in many restaurants, but you’ll be his first one, and he’s so excited it’s a Cuban restaurant. It’s like a way to be in a different part of the world he’s been missing.”
“Wow, I’m honored. Thank you.”
Honored, and now there’s a giant indestructible boulder on my shoulders. He’s going to be exceptionally disappointed if he finds out the truth. I should just come clean now. Let everyone know I’m a fraud.
As I consider it, I see the servers come back, now holding trays with small ramekins on top. I can smell the cinnamon as they approach us and start putting one down in front each of us.
There it is. My father’s arroz con leche. It’s almost as if he made it himself in the kitchen. I have to actively stop myself from running back into the main hall to see if he’s in there, whipping up more pudding for us to enjoy. The top layer is dusted with cinnamon. There’s a lone cinnamon stick leaning against the ramekin, as if it’s relaxing in a warm, gooey hot tub. I take the smallest spoon and scoop some of the rice, my excitement growing. Slowly, I bite, allowing the flavors to coexist in my mouth simultaneously, feeling the rice’s softness and the pudding’s creaminess. It’s perfect.
“What is this amazing concoction?” John says in utter awe as he takes another bite.
“It’s delicious,” Luciano chimes in.
